Chapter 18: Day 5. Garage with Chris
The stale garage air stuck in my throat, thick with the scent of motor oil and dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grimy window. My bare feet shuffled on the cold concrete, the leftover slickness between my thighs – David’s doing earlier, a slick reminder of the payment system Mark had instituted – feeling alien and obscenely intimate in this harsh environment. Tools hung like strange, silent spectators on pegboards. A half-dismantled bike lay on its side near a makeshift bar cluttered with empty bottles. Chris leaned against a workbench, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable as he watched me enter. Quiet. Always quiet.
"Mark said you owed me," Chris stated, his deep voice low and even, cutting through the garage's heavy silence. He wasn't asking. He was stating the terms of the bet I’d stupidly lost, the terms that had turned me into this – Ella Knox's body, E-cups heavy and unfamiliar on my chest, hips flaring out, long hair tickling my bare shoulders. My own mind screaming inside a stranger’s flesh.
"Yeah," I muttered, the word tasting like ash. Shame warred with a sickening, traitorous thrum of arousal that this new body insisted on feeling. "Payment." The word felt like a brand.
Chris pushed off the bench. He walked towards a dusty treadmill shoved into a corner, beside shelves stacked with boxes. He didn’t touch me, just gestured. "Get on. Run."
My breath caught. "Run?"
"Five minutes. Warm you up." His dark eyes held mine, no malice, just a quiet intensity that felt like a physical pressure. "Naked, Taylor. Payment starts now."
My cheeks burned. The revulsion surged, the feeling of being livestock paraded. But defiance was pointless. Mark’s rules. The bet. This body. I fumbled with the flimsy robe I’d thrown on after David, letting it pool around my ankles on the oil-stained floor. The cool air puckered my nipples instantly, the weight of my breasts pulling slightly as I stepped onto the treadmill belt. Chris watched, his gaze traveling over my new curves with a detached appraisal that somehow felt worse than David’s conflicted hunger or Mark’s crude entitlement.
He hit the start button. The belt lurched beneath my bare feet. I stumbled, catching myself as it began a slow, steady pace. My breasts bounced uncomfortably with each step, a jarring, unfamiliar rhythm. Sweat prickled on my skin almost instantly. The repetitive slap of my soles on the rubber belt echoed in the cavernous space. Five minutes stretched into an eternity of humiliation. My lungs burned. The lingering slickness from David made my inner thighs feel sticky. Chris leaned against the workbench again, arms crossed, silently observing my clumsy, jiggling run. His stillness was unnerving. He didn’t leer, didn’t comment, just watched. It made me feel utterly exposed, more than if he’d been jeering.
Finally, the machine beeped and slowed to a stop. I braced my hands on the console, panting, sweat trickling down between my breasts, dripping onto the belt. My heart hammered against my ribs. Chris walked over, stopping close behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint tang of clean sweat mixed with the garage’s oil scent.
"Turn around," he said, his voice still that low, calm baritone.
I did, leaning back against the console for support, facing him. My pulse thundered in my ears. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze dropped, not to my face, but lower, taking in my sweat-sheened body, the dark patch of curls between my legs. He reached out, not touching me yet, just gesturing vaguely downwards. "Choose."
It took me a second, my mind foggy with exertion and dread. Choose? Then it clicked. Hole. The fucking payment menu. My stomach churned. Revulsion warred with the strange, unwelcome signals my body was sending – a low throb between my legs, an aching heaviness in my breasts. David had been… thorough… earlier. I was still open, slick. The thought of Chris’s cock there made me want to vomit. The thought of it anywhere else felt worse.
"Pussy," I whispered, the word thick and vile in my mouth. "It's… it's still…" I couldn't finish.
Chris just nodded, a single dip of his chin. He didn’t need the explanation about David’s leftovers. His hands moved to his belt buckle. The metallic clink was unnaturally loud. He shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion. His cock sprang free, already thick and hard, the dark skin flushed, the head glistening slightly. It was imposing, a blunt instrument of this unwanted transaction.
He stepped closer, his heat enveloping me. One large hand gripped my hip, turning me roughly away from him, bending me forward over the treadmill console. The hard plastic edge dug into my lower belly. He kicked my feet wider apart. I braced my hands on the dusty display screen, my cheek pressed against the cool plastic. I squeezed my eyes shut.
No preamble. No testing. I felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against my entrance, probing through the slickness David had left behind. A choked gasp escaped me. It wasn't gentle. There was pressure, a stretching burn despite the lube, then a hard, deep shove that punched the air from my lungs.
"Oh, fuck!" The cry tore out of me, involuntary.
Chris didn't pause. He gripped my hips hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just above my ass. He pulled back almost immediately, then slammed forward again, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. My back arched, a strangled sound catching in my throat. It hurt, a deep, aching stretch and burn that radiated outwards. And yet… god damn this treacherous body… there was a shocking jolt of sensation beneath the pain, a spark of forbidden heat igniting low in my belly.
He started fucking me. Hard. Fast. Relentless. Each powerful thrust hammered into me, driving me forward against the console with jarring force. The slap of his hips against my ass was a sharp, rhythmic percussion in the garage – smack… smack… smack… – punctuated by my own ragged gasps and involuntary whimpers. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back, hot and slick.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grunted, his voice strained now, losing its usual calm. His hands slid from my hips, one moving to grip my hair near the scalp, pulling my head back sharply. "Even lubed up. Like fuckin' velvet."
The pain was receding, submerged under a rising tide of raw, overwhelming sensation. His cock dragged against sensitive spots deep inside me I hadn't known existed. Pleasure, intense and unwanted, coiled tighter and tighter, winding up my spine. I could feel my own slickness increasing, a traitorous flood. My breasts swung heavily beneath me, aching with each jarring impact. The console dug hard into my pubic bone, adding a counterpoint of sharp pressure with every deep plunge.
"Oh god… oh fuck… Chris…" The words tumbled out, incoherent, a mix of pain and burgeoning ecstasy I couldn't control.
He fucked me like an animal, like he was working out aggression on the machine beneath him. The garage echoed with the sounds: his harsh grunts, my panting cries, the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh, the creak of the treadmill under our combined weight. His grip on my hair tightened, forcing my back into a deeper arch. I felt open, split, utterly possessed. The conflicting emotions raged – disgust at my situation, shame at my body’s betrayal, a terrifying, dawning awareness of the sheer, brutal power of this female pleasure. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't loving, it was raw and carnal, and it was consuming me.
His thrusts became frantic, losing their rhythm, becoming short, hard jabs. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound from his chest. "Gonna fill you up, Taylor," he rasped, his breath hot on my neck. "Take my fuckin' payment. Take it all."
He slammed deep one last time, burying himself impossibly deep, and held. I felt him pulse inside me, thick and hot, a flood of warmth spreading deep in my core. A choked groan ripped from his throat. The sensation triggered something blinding in me. My own climax detonated, a shockwave that tore through my entire body. I screamed, the sound raw and primal, echoing off the garage walls as my muscles clenched violently around his still-spurting cock, milking him, riding the waves of pleasure that obliterated thought, obliterating everything except the brutal, undeniable physical reality of the release. My legs trembled violently, barely holding me up.
He stayed buried for a moment, his weight heavy on me, his breath ragged against my shoulder. Then he pulled out with a slick, wet sound, leaving me feeling suddenly empty, gaping, and achingly sensitive. Cool air hit the mess between my legs. He stepped back, pulling his jeans up, buckling his belt with quick, efficient movements. The silence rushed back in, broken only by my own trembling gasps.
I slumped over the console, utterly spent, sweat cooling on my skin, my cheek pressed against the plastic. My mind was a shattered mess of humiliation, residual pleasure, and soul-deep exhaustion. Chris looked down at me for a long moment, his expression back to its usual unreadable calm, though his chest still rose and fell rapidly. He reached out, not touching me, but nudging my discarded robe with his foot.
"Clean up," he said, his voice low and flat again. "Mark wants you in the living room after." He turned and walked towards the door leading back into the house, leaving me alone in the oily, sex-scented garage, trembling and leaking his come onto the cold concrete floor. The weight of the next payment, Mark's turn, settled over me like a suffocating blanket.